Ma fader an' ma moder too, got nice, nice familee,
Dat's ten garçon an' t'orteen girl, was mak' it twenty t'ree
But fonny t'ing de Gouvernement don't geev de firs' prize den
Lak w'at dey say dey geev it now, for only wan douzaine.
De English peep dat only got wan familee small size
Mus' be feel glad dat tam dere is no honder acre prize
For fader of twelve chil'ren—dey know dat mus' be so,
De Canayens would boss Kebeck—mebbe Ontario.
But dat is not de story dat I was gone tole you
About de fun we use to have w'en we leev a chez nous
We're never lonesome on dat house, for many cavalier
Come at our place mos' every night—especially Sun-day.
But tam I'member bes' is w'en I'm twenty wan year—me—
An' so for mak' some pleasurement—we geev wan large soirée
De whole paroisse she be invite—de Curé he's come too—
Wit plaintee peep from 'noder place—dat's more I can tole you.
De night she's cole an' freeze also, chemin she's fill wit snow
An' on de chimley lak phantome, de win' is mak' it blow—
But boy an' girl come all de sam an' pass on grande parloir
For warm itself on beeg box stove, was mak' on Trois Rivières—
An' w'en Bonhomme Latour commence for tune up hees fidelle
It mak' us all feel very glad—l'enfant! he play so well,
Musique suppose to be firs' class, I offen hear, for sure
But mos' bes' man, beat all de res', is ole Bateese Latour—
An' w'en Bateese play Irish jeeg, he's learn on Mattawa
Dat tam he's head boss cook Shaintee—den leetle Joe Leblanc
Tak' hole de beeg Marie Juneau an' dance upon de floor
Till Marie say "Excuse to me, I cannot dance no more."—
An' den de Curé's mak' de speech—ole Curé Ladouceur!
He say de girl was spark de boy too much on some cornerre—
An' so he's tole Bateese play up ole fashion reel a quatre
An' every body she mus' dance, dey can't get off on dat.
Away she go—hooraw! hooraw! plus fort Bateese, mon vieux
Camille Bisson, please watch your girl—dat's bes' t'ing you can do.
Pass on de right an' tak' your place Mamzelle Des Trois Maisons
You're s'pose for dance on Paul Laberge, not Telesphore Gagnon.
Mon oncle Al-fred, he spik lak' dat—'cos he is boss de floor,
An' so we do our possibill an' den commence encore.
Dem crowd of boy an' girl I'm sure keep up until nex' day
If ole Bateese don't stop heseff, he come so fatigué.